


Two Tickets Out of Nowhere, Missouri

by approaching_asymmetry



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biracial Character, Biracial Marco, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Poetry, Sexual Content, Writer Jean Kirstein, they're both huge lit nerds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13096815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/approaching_asymmetry/pseuds/approaching_asymmetry
Summary: In the late 1950s, in a small midwestern town where difference is condemned, Jean and Marco dream of a larger world and of a future where love doesn’t have to be hidden behind closed doors.A story of things lost and found, of journeys, of the magic of words and the meaning of silence.





	Two Tickets Out of Nowhere, Missouri

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jerza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jerza/gifts).



I don’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t love Marco Bodt. I wasn’t always _in_ love with him—that came later—but I’ve always loved him.

His mother worked for mine, starting back during the war when my father went overseas to fight. Mama began working, and she needed someone to take care of me. Cora Bodt had a three-year-old boy of her own to take care of, but Mama didn’t mind her bringing him to the house when she looked after me. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement until my father came back and Mama could stay at home again. But he never did come back, and Mama continued to work, and Cora and Marco were there to stay.

Marco and I got on like a house on fire. I was a year younger, but that never stopped me from leading him on all sorts of misadventures, from trying (unsuccessfully) to catch squirrels in the backyard to keep as pets, to finding out just where Mama kept all the sweets in the pantry. Even when I got older and didn’t need a nanny anymore, Marco still came over every week like clockwork. We’d help each other out with homework or just sit and talk for hours. Sometimes we wouldn’t even need to talk. Marco would read, and I’d flip through a magazine or doodle in the margins of my school notebooks.

I don’t remember exactly when I fell in love with him, because it wasn’t the kind of thing that happens all at once. It was a process, as easy and natural as breathing. I do remember when I _realized_ I was in love with him, which was quite a different thing. It was July of 1956, and it hit me like a bolt of summer lightning. We were sitting at the table in the backyard, and he had been reading. It’s funny, I don’t remember the title of the book. Just that it was huge and wasn’t required reading for any of his classes, and the way he rolled his eyes when I told him how those two facts put together made him an unmistakable goody two-shoes. He’d fallen asleep, head resting on his arms. I looked over and smirked and thought about waking him up. But he looked so peaceful, his light brown skin glowing angelic in the late afternoon sunshine. I took in all the details of him, from the delicate curl of his eyelashes to the dark freckles that spattered his cheeks and danced across the backs of his hands. And I saw the way his mouth hung slightly open, his face so unguarded, and I thought about the giant “just for fun” book that had turned into a pillow, and suddenly I felt dizzy with how much I loved him. It hit me so fast and so hard I thought it would knock me out of my chair. I loved him, of course I did, how could I have ever thought anything different? In that moment I knew he was the only one for me. It scared me how certain I was. But there was also a sense of warmth, of comfort, of _right-_ ness, and I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

I didn’t tell him for two whole years. I might never have had the guts to tell him if he hadn’t kissed me. This time we were in my room, and he was reading again—let’s be honest, the kid read all the time. Sometimes he’d read aloud to me, and I’d never admit just how much I loved it. He was reading me the tale of Odysseus, and at some point he trailed off from the text and into a thorough commentary on the chiastic structure of the _Odyssey_. Maybe that’s what I liked best, when I think about it, not the reading but rather his passionate tangents.

“It’s circular,” he explained. “The first few chapters mirror the last. It’s fascinating! Everything comes back around, and maybe it’s not exactly the same, and it’s not how you’d expect, but it all comes back.” He continued his explanation, but the finer details were lost to me: at some point I had dozed off against his shoulder, lulled by the smoothness of his voice. I woke to the feeling of warm lips barely brushing my forehead.

Honestly I was still drowsy and a little confused, and I let out an intelligent “Hmm?”

Marco jolted. “Oh! You’re awake!” He laughed a little nervously and flipped quickly through the pages of his book.

“Did you...kiss me?” He looked suddenly very immersed in one specific passage of the _Odyssey_ , and it must have been pretty damn fascinating because he didn’t meet my eye. But he couldn’t possibly hide the deep blush blooming in his cheeks, and I tried again, my hand on his arm. “Marco?”

He finally forced himself to meet my gaze, and whatever frantic explanation he was about to give died on his lips. Maybe it was the fact that I was smiling like a lovestruck fool, but he smiled right back. “Are you….okay with that?”

“No.” I saw a flash of panic in his eyes and backpedaled hard. “I mean _yes_ , I just... I wish you’d done it while I was awake.” There it was. Out in the open.

God, my heart was beating fast.

He just stared at me for a moment, frozen. Then his face broke into a grin so bright it was like watching a sunrise. “I can do that.”

And he did. _We_ did.

We leaned forward, blushing like wild, and our lips touched softly before we both broke away into a gigging fit at the marvel of it all. I could have lived in that giddy, effervescent moment forever. Turns out while I was busy falling for him, he was falling right back for me. We kissed several more times that evening, although the exact count was unclear—did it count as a kiss if the both of you were smiling so hard you could barely keep your lips on each other?

Our relationship grew from there—in private, of course. We weren’t ignorant of the fact that we were breaking important unspoken rules. Interracial relationships weren’t unheard of, but they were rare, and obviously frowned upon. Marco himself was the product of a mixed relationship, but that was no reassurance: the only thing he knew about his white father was that he’d broken his mother’s heart long before Marco was born. And two boys in a relationship was simply unthinkable. It just didn’t happen, or at least that’s what we thought then. So we kept our secret locked up tight, even if pretending wore us down sometimes.

About a year into our relationship, it was becoming too much. “I wish we didn’t have to act like completely different people in public,” Marco said one evening. “Behind closed doors we can kiss like there’s no tomorrow, but the second we walk out it’s ‘just friends.’ And we even have to be careful with that title.” He sighed. “I hate having to act like you’re not one of the most important things in my life.”

I curled closer to him. I felt the same way, but there wasn’t much more to say other than a soft “Me too.” We sat there, quiet for a long while as he stroked my hair and I traced idle shapes between the freckles on his arm. I imagined all the times I’d seen him on the other side of a room or across the street. I’d smile and tilt my head in a cordial greeting when all I really wanted to do was sprint across the distance between us and kiss him senseless.

“Maybe....no, it’s dumb,” I stopped myself, thinking out loud.

He sat back a little to look at me, his dark eyes soft with curiosity. “Maybe what?”

“I just thought... Maybe when we’re in public we could...do something, kind of like a secret message?” I felt my cheeks warm up a bit, feeling a little foolish, but I’d already come this far. “We could touch our noses or tug on our ears or something, and it could be like a kiss. Or like we’re saying ‘I love you.’”

He smiled at me, and the warmth I felt was no longer embarrassment but a rush of affection. “It would have to be something very subtle. Unmistakable, but subtle. The ear thing would work best, I think.”

I tried it, attempting to make it look like I was just scratching an itch or fidgeting. “Like this?” I raised an eyebrow and waited for approval.

“Looks good,” he said, grinning. “Nobody would suspect a thing. But we’d know, wouldn’t we?” He leaned in to kiss me, and I practically hummed with happiness.

“Mmm, we sure would.” Our lips met again, Marco pulling me closer and twisting his fingers into my hair. The kiss grew more intense, and I slipped my tongue in between his lips, eliciting a low moan that made my skin tingle. I cradled his head in my hands as our mouths moved against each other and he started rocking his hips into mine. It was clear the direction the evening was taking, and neither of us were complaining one bit.

He broke away with a gasp. “Can I take this off?” he said, tugging at the collar of my shirt.

“Honey, you can take _everything_ off.” I grinned at him and we made quick work of shedding our clothes, still stealing kisses and the occasional giggle as one of us got his foot stuck in his pant leg or had to get a button untangled from his hair. This wasn’t our first time, but seeing him like this still gave me such a thrill you’d think it was. I pulled him into a kiss, and let him explore my skin with his hands. He dragged trembling fingers down the inside of my thigh, slow, because he knew it drove me mad. In retaliation, I let my messy kisses drift from across his jawline down the length of his sensitive neck. He let out a quiet whine as my lips worked at the base of his throat.

He groaned and leaned back suddenly to fish in my bedside drawer for the small jar I kept there, and something about the fact that he already knew where to look had my face flushing hot. When I was taking him, he always prepared me so carefully before, and this time was no different. I closed my eyes as he started with one finger, then two, always giving me time to adjust before adding another. My breathing stuttered as his digits moved so gently inside me and his mouth drifted over my chest. He curled his fingers just about the same time as he started using his tongue, and the high-pitched sound I made must have been awfully funny because he laughed softly before working his way back up my body. If I could have blushed any more at that point, I probably would have. His fingers disappeared and he pressed a soft kiss to my lips. His eyes found mine, and suddenly I felt the warm pressure of him against my entrance. I nodded, a little breathless. His mouth fell open as he began pushing in, so so slowly. With soft little pulses, he moved deeper, deeper inside me, never breaking that hypnotizing eye contact. His eyebrows furrowed the slightest bit with concentration, and his eyes were dark and intoxicating, and I couldn’t have looked away if I had tried. A little moan slipped from my throat as soon his hips were flush against the back of my thighs. He finally let his eyes fall closed as he leaned forward to kiss me again, still pumping his hips ever so softly, getting me used to the movement. _What a considerate man_ , I thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. _What a thoughtful lover_. His lips still brushed mine as he asked if I was ready for more. I nodded, already a little hazy with anticipated pleasure, and sighed a yes into the softness of his lips. He took a deep breath as he pulled out almost entirely and bit his lip before thrusting back into me. I honest-to-God squeaked. Marco just grinned as he continued moving. It wasn’t as if I had any kind of facade of dignity to keep up around him. His next thrust made me shudder; it brushed that just right place inside that made me absolutely weak. I threw my arms around his neck and pulled him close to me. Sometimes it would be faster, rougher, but Marco seemed determined to take his time, rolling his hips slowly and deliberately. He moaned long and sweet as we moved together. One of his hands caressed my cheek and his mouth hovered over mine so close I could feel his warm breath on my lips and he could drink in the whimpers and gasps that slipped from my throat. The pleasure built up in delicate layers, more and more until finally it was too much to handle. I clung to him, my legs quivering but still wrapped tight around his body. I wasn’t going to last much longer, and neither was he, judging by the way his arms were shaking. I buried my face in his neck.

“I love you, Marco. I love you, I love you, I— _ahh!_ —I love you so—!!” That was it for me. I held tight to him, and he followed me soon after, gasping “sweetheart” in between breathless kisses.

After we both came down and our breath went back to normal, we curled close together on my bed. “Hey Jean,” he said. I looked up at him, and he gave me a weary smile and tugged his ear. I mirrored the action, and we both laughed, grateful for the small slice of peace we had been able to carve for ourselves.

Times weren’t always so good. Both of us had seen our fair share of humanity’s ugliest side.

Like the time, a few months after that, when I came home from school a nervous wreck and all I could think to do was to call Marco over. The minute he came in the door he could tell something was wrong. I always was an open book when it came to him. Maybe it was the way I crossed my arms tight over my body, the way I chewed on my lower lip, the way I wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“Sweetheart, what happened?” He hurried over and wrapped a warm hand around my shoulder.

“It was....some of the boys from my school. You know how they are sometimes.”

He squeezed me tighter. “What did they say about—never mind, I’m not gonna make you say it.” That was one of the things I loved about Marco. He didn’t push. He knew what it was like, how it felt to be singled out, even more than I did. On many occasions our roles had been reversed, and I was the one comforting him on a particularly bad day.

I tried to let go of it, to empty my mind of anything but Marco and the warmth of his arms around me. It was easier said than done; I could still hear their disgusting comments ringing in my ears. It’s almost as if people like that can sense when you’re different. Sure, I liked guys as much as I liked girls, but I’d never breathed a word of it to anyone I didn’t trust completely.

But somehow, they knew.

It was all sorts of insults and names from the time we were in middle school, but after I started spending even more time with Marco, they became almost unbearable. Usually I could stomach it okay, but that day the things they said about me, about _him_ , made me feel like I was going to throw up, or cry, or maybe both.

I didn’t have to say much. Marco understood. He held me and I finally let myself cry. We sat on my bed until I had cried myself out, and he leaned his forehead against mine until my erratic breathing calmed to match his. We sank into my pillows and stayed quiet for a long time. We didn’t need to say anything; our thoughts were loud enough. Eventually I picked up his hand, pressing it against mine, playing idly with his fingers.

“Imagine if we just left. Just...picked up and left.” My voice was quiet. I was almost surprised that I had said it out loud.

“Left?”

“Neither of us want to spend our whole lives in this town. I wanna get out. I want to see the world.”

“We can’t just...” He trailed off, and the unconscious smile starting to curve his lips gave him away. He wanted it too.

“New York first,” he said decidedly. “You’ve heard the stories, how things are different there. Maybe not perfect, but if we’re gonna fit in anywhere in this country it’s bound to be there. Besides, there are so many people… We could just get lost in it all. It’s not like this town, where everyone and their grandmother wants to know your business. And then after that… New York is really just a gateway, isn’t it? A gateway to the rest of the world.” He swept his hand out in a wide gesture. And I could see it. The whole globe, spread out before us, and the only thing left to do was step out the door. I could see us wandering the boulevards of Paris, exploring the Amazon, kissing under the northern lights.

That evening, we planned our future. We started a list of all the countries we would go, all the fantastic things we would see. For hours, we dreamed out loud and believed every word.

The next morning, I blinked my eyes open to the pink glow coming in through the window. I stretched, bunching up the white sheets tangled around my legs. I felt the warmth of another body beside me and drowsily snuggled closer. Sometime during the night, Marco had put his arm around me, and now I interlaced our fingers and brought the back of a freckled hand to my lips. He let his eyes close again and murmured a soft “G’morning.”

And then it hit me.

_Morning?_

“Shit!” I turned to face Marco, who hummed sleepily in response to the sudden movement.

“Marco! You gotta wake up!” I hissed. “We fell asleep!” Marco’s brow furrowed and he hummed again, not entirely awake. I shook his shoulder. “Marco!”

His eyes fluttered open, and he smiled fondly at me before taking in the morning light and realizing. His face dropped. “Oh shit.”

This never happened. Whenever he came over we always made sure he left in the evening before it got too dark out. Marco staying over would raise more questions than we were prepared to deal with. We usually didn’t have to worry too much about Mama because she worked late hours, but this time we ended up sneaking out as quietly as we could, terrified of waking her. I walked him home, reasoning that it would probably look less suspicious to prying neighbors than Marco slinking out of my house alone. When we reached his door he turned to say goodbye, and I tugged my ear. He echoed the movement right back, and we both smiled at our shared secret.

As soon as he went inside, I heard a muffled yell through the door. “Marco Alan Bodt, you had me worried half to death!” Cora sounded furious, and I felt a pang of guilt for keeping him over. She kept shouting, and I was about to leave when I heard my own name.

“—think you love him, and I don’t have anything against him, but you can’t keep this up.” I lingered by the door, morbid curiosity preventing me from leaving just yet. She continued. “You can’t trust him, Marco, he says he loves you but you have no clue—”

Marco said something I couldn’t hear, and Cora exploded. “This is not about your father! Do you realize—” she paused, probably trying to compose herself. “Do you realize that you are putting everything—everything—in this boy’s hands? Your future, your _life_. Boys like you have been killed for less. And I can’t—” Her voice cut off suddenly, but came back softer. “You think I’m stronger than I am, Marco. If people catch wind of what you two have been doing, it won’t be Jean who gets punished, I can assure you that. When you didn’t come home last night, I was so afraid...” I couldn’t hear the rest, but I didn’t need to.

That was it. We were going to get out. That afternoon I bought two train tickets, and all that was left was to find the perfect moment and surprise him. His mother was right, but it was this _place_ that was the problem. If we could just get away from this claustrophobic, hateful town, to somewhere we might belong a little more, we’d be fine. Everything would be fine.

Only a day after that came the breaking point. I had planned on showing him the tickets, but he was late coming over to my house. I was just about to go out and search for him when he stumbled in.

Jesus.

“Christ, Marco, what happened??” I rushed to his side and cradled his face gently in my hands, anxious to help but not sure how. “Who did this?”

Blood was smeared from his lip to his bruised chin. There were more bruises: one by his eye, another on his cheekbone accompanied by a small cut. The way he held himself, I suspected there were more wounds I couldn’t see.

“Those boys from your school—they must’ve seen us leaving your house yesterday. Jean, they…they know.”

And that’s when it really, finally hit me. His mother’s words echoed in my ears.

_If people catch wind of what you two have been doing, it won’t be Jean who gets punished._

_You are putting everything in this boy’s hands._

_Boys like you have been killed for less._

God, I’d been so stupid. Do you ever just stop and think about how _young_ you are? How you don’t know a damn thing in the world, and even if you did, you’d still make all the wrong decisions with it?

I was eighteen years old, and I had Marco’s life in my hands.

And I was killing him.

Every moment I spent with him endangered his life more. I had always considered myself a realist, but I had let my guard down. Before I knew it, Marco’s idealism had colored my world and allowed me to hope. It reminded me of when we would play with soap bubbles in the kitchen as kids. Our dreams and plans floated above our heads, perfect and delicate, and we sat entranced by their rainbow sheen.

But sooner or later, those bubbles had to pop.

What did I expect? I’d walk up and say “I have two tickets in my pocket” and he’d kiss me and pack up right away and we’d ride off into the sunset? I couldn’t keep doing this to him. We were lucky it wasn’t worse the first time, but who knew if this would happen again?

I could keep him, or I could keep him safe. I couldn’t do both.

I chose the latter.

I think he knew, when it came to it. He couldn’t help but notice the change in me over the next few days, and it hardly came as a surprise when I finally gathered up the courage and the will to do it. I wanted to wait until he was a little more healed up, but I knew I couldn’t put it off much longer.

“Marco, sweetheart, can we talk?” I shouldn’t have called him sweetheart, not considering what I was about to say.

“Of course.” He smiled softly at me, but I could sense the underlying uncertainty.

I took a deep breath to steady myself, to somehow prepare myself for what I was about to say. I started, faltered. Started again, faltered.

“Love, is everything all right?” His eyebrows twisted in concern, _god_  he was so caring.

“Yes. No. It’s…” I took another deep breath. “It’s not alright. I think maybe…we need to stop.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “Stop…?”

“Stop this. Us. Seeing each other.” I couldn’t meet his eye.

He didn’t respond immediately. “Why?” His voice was small.

“Really?” I looked at him, incredulous. “Can you not think of any reasons? Any reason at all why this might not work??” I winced a little as my words came out sharper than intended.

“But...is that what you really want? To end this?” My eyes were already stinging hearing the hurt in his voice, and I couldn’t deny him honesty.

“It’s not what I want at all, Marco.”

“Then why—”

“Because a relationship like this can’t last, and I hate it, but that’s the truth! That’s reality!”

“Well.” His voice turned cold. “At least I know you’ll feel badly about it," he scoffed. “You know, this must be so terrible for you. Now you can go off and get married to a nice white girl and you can be normal.” He smiled bitterly. “Is that it? Didn’t want to date a colored boy? Didn’t want to date a boy at all? After all this you get to run away and make yourself a perfect little life, but _I. Don’t. Get. To._ ” He fixed me with an intense glare, but the effect was ruined by a tear falling onto his cheek. As it slid down his face, his chin started quivering, and his whole expression broke. Suddenly, he looked as vulnerable as the boy I had first fallen in love with.

“Sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I know you’re not that shallow, I just—”

I knew. He was hurt.

I was hurting him. Hell, I was hurting myself, but I had to keep telling myself it was better this way.

“I’m not....” God, I needed to keep it together, just breathe. “I can’t keep doing this to you. This whole time I've been putting you in more and more danger. I’ve been so stupid, Marco! I’ve been a goddamned idiot! I thought that everything would work out eventually if we just loved each other enough, but you know what? I love you so much it hurts, and it won’t change a damn thing. There are too many reasons why this, _us_ , why it’s impossible. We can’t even sit together on a damned bus! Maybe someday there’ll be a world where people like us can be together.” A rueful laugh slipped from my lips. “But I don’t think it’s gonna come in time for us.”

He frowned but said nothing for a moment. “Maybe you’re right, Jean. Maybe it _will_ be too late for us.” He looked up at me then, an unusual intensity in his eyes. “But it’ll never come at all if we don’t fight for it.”

Some desperate part of me broke just then. “That’s exactly it, Marco! That’s what it’ll be! A fight, a goddamned _battle_ , every day of our lives! And do you know what happens in a battle? People _die_ , Marco.” I might have been crying then. I was definitely shouting by that point, pleading for him to let me do this for him. “I’m afraid, Marco. You should be too. I never realized just how dangerous I was making things for you, the _risks_ —”

“You sound like my mother.” I didn’t say anything. He narrowed his eyes. “Did she talk to you?”

“No, she—“ I looked down, avoiding his intent gaze. “I overheard her. The morning after you slept over.”

He sighed deeply and looked away. “Maybe that’s just as well.” His shoulders slumped. “She’s worried about me.”

“That’s something we have in common.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, letting another tear slip loose. He didn’t say anything for a while. Then, “You’re right, Jean. I think… I think I’ve known it too. I know I’ve only been dreaming, I just wouldn’t let myself believe it. ” He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “I’ve just been,” his voice hitched, “so—so _stupid_. To think that maybe this could...”

I hated hearing him talk about himself that way “It was both of us, Marco. We were both dreaming. And I’m so glad it happened.” I put my hand on his arm. “I’m so glad it was you.”

He looked at me, eyes shining with tears, and I could swear I heard both of our hearts breaking at once.

“Me too. Thank you, Jean. For letting me dream. And for bringing me back to reality.” He tried to smile through his tears, and all I wanted to do was kiss him and tell him we were both wrong and that we could work something out. But I couldn’t.

I watched him turn slowly and walk away, and I tugged my ear one last time as he slipped out of view.

The next few days, those tickets burned a hole in my pocket. I never used either of them, but I tucked them between the pages of one of my books and tried to forget about them.

I saw him a few times after that. He’d look away as soon as he saw me, and I would too, for the most part. At least once, he didn’t notice me, and I drank in the sight of my lost love like a dying man. But I hadn’t lost him, not really. I gave him up. I did what I could to protect him, even if it meant I couldn’t be by his side. I wanted to tug on my ear again, even if he couldn’t see me. Especially since he couldn’t see me. But I didn’t. I had already been enough of a fool these past few years; I was done. I put my head down and kept walking. At that moment, something heavy in my chest twisted apart, and I for the first time I wondered how many of the people I passed on the sidewalk were like me. Walking along, looking so unassuming, and feeling the whole time like they’re bleeding inside from some great wound no one else can see. A wound that in my case, no one could even know about.

We both got out eventually, even if it wasn’t together.

It wasn’t too long after we broke things off that Marco went off to college out of state. The night after he left, I cried like a baby. I didn’t hear from him, and I told myself it was for the best. The less I knew about his life, the less I’d try to convince myself that I could still fit into it somehow.

I ended up going to community college and becoming a writing major. Maybe it was that Marco’s relentless passion for words had rubbed off on me. Maybe it was all the years keeping the truth bottled up that left me bursting with the need to tell stories. Even if I couldn’t speak my own truth, I'd do what I could to give voice to others.

As time passed, I knew I needed to get over him. I even went on a few dates in that last year of college. There were smart girls and pretty girls, but I always found a reason that they weren’t quite right. This one chewed her fingernails, that one clicked her pen all the time.

The truth is, the only thing wrong with them was that they weren’t Marco.

After two years, I’d had enough. Marco and I had dreamed of getting out of this town. He’d already gone, but that didn’t mean I was giving up that dream. I kissed my mother goodbye, hopped on a train to New York City, and tried my hardest not to look back.

I ended up finding a tiny little apartment in Greenwich Village and a job at a nearby coffeehouse. I kept writing and found myself being drawn into the local literary scene. For the first time, I saw authors performing their works at open mics; I witnessed a new kind of poetry that brought words to life, let them shiver in the air before they popped, cool and sweet against the audience’s ears. I wondered, too often, if Marco would’ve liked it.

He certainly would have liked the neighborhood. It was the first time I found people like me, people like _us_. The first friend I made in New York was a musician named Connie Springer. He once told me we were denizens of a real-life Island of Misfit Toys, and the longer I stayed the more I realized it was true. It was the kind of place where I might have loved Marco without fear, and that revelation made the longing almost unbearable for a while.

It still hurt. I always thought that once you hit rock bottom, it was only up from there. That’s not how it happens, not by a long shot. Just when I thought it was getting better, I’d crash right back down. I kept waiting for a day when I didn’t think of him, but it never came. There would always be something to remind me. I’d hear someone sing “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” and think of all the times I’d heard that endearment on Marco’s lips. I’d see the way the city sparkled in the snow and wish he was there to see it with me. I once saw a tattered copy of the _Odyssey_ in a used book shop and almost burst into tears right then and there.

Maybe the fact that I never really got over him was a sign—a sign that I wasn’t ever meant to.

Even so, I grew into myself those next few years on my own. I wrote my own poetry and plays and even performed some of my work at cafes and clubs. That is, all but the poems I wrote about Marco. Those I kept close to my chest, although I did readings of a few that danced around the topic. Those were some of the most terrifying and thrilling to share because they revealed that vulnerable part of me I’d only ever shown one other person. But I discovered a new sense of confidence that I had never known before. I delved into the subjects of politics and sexuality and race and found that I had a lot to say. After years of being a scared teenager hiding in a small midwestern town, I finally discovered my own voice.

Marco had once said that New York City was a place you could get lost in. What I didn’t know at the time was that it was also a place where you could be found.

It was New Years Eve, 1965, at the Garrison Cafe, tucked away in a hole in the wall on Macdougal Street. A few friends had invited me to celebrate with them, and it sounded a whole lot better than spending the night alone in my dump of an apartment.

All in all, it was an enjoyable night. The lineup of performers was a selection of the Garrison’s best. Connie made a fantastic racket with three different brass instruments and a drum set. Our friend Ymir had everyone in stitches with a stand-up routine about her neighbor’s ancient rug of a cat. A new girl, Sasha, serenaded the audience while accompanying herself with a colorfully painted guitar.

It was about ten minutes to midnight, and we were pouring champagne—which the Garrison may or may not have had a license for—to toast in the new year. Ymir was regaling us with a yarn about her past New Year’s misadventures when I looked across the room and met a pair of eyes I hadn’t seen in over five years.

Marco.

He was older and his shoulders had filled out a bit, and he was even more staggeringly handsome than I remembered, but it was unmistakably Marco. His eyes were wide; he was as surprised as I was.

Ymir nudged me and made some kind of sarcastic comment, but I missed whatever she said, still unable to tear my eyes away from Marco. I tilted my head towards the back of the room in a silent question, and he nodded in agreement.

We needed to talk.

We made our way through the crowd to meet in an emptier corner in the back, where we hopefully had some measure of privacy.

“Hello.” God, this was awkward.

“...Hi.” Each time I thought I could identify the emotion on his face, it seemed to change, leaving me unsure of where we stood.

For a while we just stared at each other, silent. So many things I’d imagined saying to him over the past few years, and in that moment I had absolutely nothing. He gazed back at me, looking just as lost as I was. I needed to break the silence, to say something, anything, to the man standing before me. What was he doing here? Had he been able to find happiness in the intervening years? Did he resent me?

Just like the first time we kissed, it was Marco who made the first move. He took a deep, steadying breath. Then slowly, so slowly, he reached up.

And tugged on his ear.

I felt everything at once. It was a kick to the gut, a shock to the system, a rush of warmth, a passionate kiss.

As much as I’d made a life of stringing words together, in that moment it was hard for me to find the right ones, the ones that would express exactly what I was feeling.

What I said was a small, cracked, “You too?”

His mouth dropped open. Whatever answer he was expecting, it wasn’t that, and the surprise on his face made me smile. I tugged on my own ear, and his shock turned to a grin. I opened my mouth to speak again but was interrupted by cheers and clinking glasses throughout the cafe. It was midnight.

“Happy New Year, Jean.” I never imagined I’d ever hear my name on his lips again, and after all those years, it felt like coming home.

“Happy New Year, Marco.”

And I kissed him in the back of that cafe, not caring who saw.

We ended up going back to my place, where we spent the better part of the night alternating between rediscovering each other’s bodies and rediscovering each other’s souls. We had years of catching up to do. I learned that Marco was enrolled in a graduate program not too far away, planning to become a professor of literature. I told him about my writing and my poetry, and I blushed like a teenager as I let him read some of my work.

We had had a lot of time to grow into the people we were meant to be. What we finally realized was that those people were meant to be together.

Trying to live our lives apart obviously didn’t work, so we didn’t try anymore. We moved in together, and the next few years alone made up for the pain and fear of the past.

I intended to propose the night he got his degree. Like most other things in our life, it didn’t turn out quite as planned. It was two in the morning on February 24, 1968, still months before he would graduate, and I woke up to see him hunched over his typewriter working on his thesis. It was the sound of the coffeemaker that had woken me up. He was having coffee. At two in the morning. Like a madman.

I proposed right then and there.

Of course we couldn’t legally marry, but that didn’t stop us from putting on our best suits and inviting our friends to the apartment we shared for an unofficial ceremony, complete with rings and rice. (Although it was really only our friends Connie and Sasha who thought throwing rice would be a good idea—and helping us vacuum when said rice inevitably found its way into every possible nook and cranny of our apartment. I was still finding grains of it in our bookshelf years after the fact.)

After we married, we took the money we’d been saving up, and we traveled the world.

All the places our teenage selves only dreamed of going, we went. France, Egypt, Norway, Peru, Australia, and more: we explored everywhere, not wanting to miss a single thing on our grand world tour. We furnished our home with pictures and souvenirs from around the globe, and we shared our memories with our children.

In the end, our lives were circular too. Everything came back around. Maybe it wasn’t exactly the same, and it wasn’t how we expected, but it all came back. We brought it back together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for your great prompts! I had a hard time deciding between them, but in the end I just couldn’t resist a historical au! I hope you enjoyed this piece; it was a lot of fun to write!
> 
> Merry Christmas!!


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